Carol Taylor
Carol A. Taylor is a Texas poet whose work has appeared or is upcoming in a number of print and online journals, including Light Quarterly, Iambs & Trochees, Rattle, First Things, Per Contra, 14 by 14, The Barefoot Muse, Susquehanna Quarterly, Lighten Up Online, Trinacria, Tilt-a-Whirl, Concise Delight, and Umbrella Journal, and in several print anthologies She has put out three chapbooks, "Saving for the Future" 2003, "Houston Skyline" 2006, and a bilingual collection of sonnets, "Sonetos del Inglés" in 2011. Other credits include guest-editing the Fall-Winter 2002 issue of Light Quarterly which featured an anthology of classic jokes written into original poems collected and edited by Carol and fellow poet Tim Murphy, and serving as Administrator of the online workshop Eratosphere from 2001-2007 and as Light Verse Editor of Umbrella Journal's Bumbershoot division from 2006-2008. Her poem “Texas Is Singing” became the text for a choral and orchestral piece of the same name by Texas composer Randol Bass.
Carol enjoys rhyme and form and writes almost exclusively in meter. She currently administers the online metrical workshop Poet & Critic at www.poetandcritic.com. Officially retired, she is a free-lance translator, sings with the Texas Master Chorale, and does volunteer work.
Carol enjoys rhyme and form and writes almost exclusively in meter. She currently administers the online metrical workshop Poet & Critic at www.poetandcritic.com. Officially retired, she is a free-lance translator, sings with the Texas Master Chorale, and does volunteer work.
Carol's favorite quote about poetry:
"Poetry? Isn't that the thing everybody writes and nobody reads?" - Unknown
"Poetry? Isn't that the thing everybody writes and nobody reads?" - Unknown
Tea and Sympathy
A kindness, Deborah—is that all it was?
The way to help a faltering young man
whose doubts about himself you understood?
A gesture asking nothing in return
except the knowledge he would use your gift
to shore his confidence and then forget
an older woman’s loving, or at best,
be kind, remembering? Was that enough?
Was yours a simple act of charity,
like giving away old clothes you’d never wear
that might warm someone else, just hanging there
neglected in your closet all those years?
Or did you dream of being young, in love,
wanted again, the way you were at twenty
when you last wore them? Did you hope the thrill
of youth and passion would replace the chill
of that cold man for just a little while?
You knew, of course, the way it had to end,
but was it worth it? Tell me, Deborah Kerr.
If you could change the script of memory,
would you still offer tea and sympathy?
© Carol A. Taylor
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Carol.
Tea and Sympathy was first published in Alsop Review Print Anthology in 2004.
The way to help a faltering young man
whose doubts about himself you understood?
A gesture asking nothing in return
except the knowledge he would use your gift
to shore his confidence and then forget
an older woman’s loving, or at best,
be kind, remembering? Was that enough?
Was yours a simple act of charity,
like giving away old clothes you’d never wear
that might warm someone else, just hanging there
neglected in your closet all those years?
Or did you dream of being young, in love,
wanted again, the way you were at twenty
when you last wore them? Did you hope the thrill
of youth and passion would replace the chill
of that cold man for just a little while?
You knew, of course, the way it had to end,
but was it worth it? Tell me, Deborah Kerr.
If you could change the script of memory,
would you still offer tea and sympathy?
© Carol A. Taylor
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Carol.
Tea and Sympathy was first published in Alsop Review Print Anthology in 2004.
Handy Man
He combs the junkyard till he finds a rear
right fender for a ‘69 Corvair.
“It isn’t any older than the left,”
he reasons. “Dings are normal wear and tear.”
The lid’s unhinged; the washer drum won’t spin.
“I’ve got a wedge or two out in the bin
I think will fit it. There, that ought to hold
until some kid ham-fists the thing again.”
He never throws a good used part away,
this deacon of the worn-out One-Hoss Shay.
“Why should one part be stronger than the rest?
The other parts may give out any day.”
He jerry-rigs the porch rail and the lock,
the fan, the fence, a bike, a cuckoo clock.
There isn’t anything he can’t put back
just like it was the day before it broke.
© Carol A. Taylor
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Carol.
Handy Man was first published in Umbrella Journal in Winter 2006.
He combs the junkyard till he finds a rear
right fender for a ‘69 Corvair.
“It isn’t any older than the left,”
he reasons. “Dings are normal wear and tear.”
The lid’s unhinged; the washer drum won’t spin.
“I’ve got a wedge or two out in the bin
I think will fit it. There, that ought to hold
until some kid ham-fists the thing again.”
He never throws a good used part away,
this deacon of the worn-out One-Hoss Shay.
“Why should one part be stronger than the rest?
The other parts may give out any day.”
He jerry-rigs the porch rail and the lock,
the fan, the fence, a bike, a cuckoo clock.
There isn’t anything he can’t put back
just like it was the day before it broke.
© Carol A. Taylor
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Carol.
Handy Man was first published in Umbrella Journal in Winter 2006.
Tomball, West of Tokyo
Rain on dandelions;
another lazy Sunday--
cut the grass next week.
Fog forms on cold glass.
The smell of morning coffee
fills my small red car.
Seven pounds are gone.
You, last praline in the box,
reward my long fast.
© Carol A. Taylor
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Carol.
Tomball, West of Tokyo was first published in Conversing with Poetry's print anthology in 2010.
Rain on dandelions;
another lazy Sunday--
cut the grass next week.
Fog forms on cold glass.
The smell of morning coffee
fills my small red car.
Seven pounds are gone.
You, last praline in the box,
reward my long fast.
© Carol A. Taylor
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Carol.
Tomball, West of Tokyo was first published in Conversing with Poetry's print anthology in 2010.
Villanella
I’m making puttanesca from a jar.
I’d whip it up from scratch, but what the hell--
I’d rather spend my time in Guido’s bar.
My mother came from Rome before the war.
She taught me how to knead the pappardelle;
she cooked all day; she never used a jar
except when canning for St. Anne’s bazaar.
Instead of Chips Ahoy we ate pizzelli
(you can get them still in Guido’s bar).
My mother’s sauce, slow-cooked with lots of gar-
lic, peppers, onions, topped with mozarella,
was nothing you can purchase in a jar
at Central Market. Homemade’s best by far,
but that’s for folks who don’t live near a deli,
don’t hang out most nights in Guido’s bar.
I haven’t time to bake lasagna or
clean up the pans or write a villanella.
I’ll just heat puttanesca from a jar,
put on some heels, and head for Guido’s bar.
© Carol A. Taylor
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Carol.
Villanella was first published in The Barefoot Muse in December 2007.
I’m making puttanesca from a jar.
I’d whip it up from scratch, but what the hell--
I’d rather spend my time in Guido’s bar.
My mother came from Rome before the war.
She taught me how to knead the pappardelle;
she cooked all day; she never used a jar
except when canning for St. Anne’s bazaar.
Instead of Chips Ahoy we ate pizzelli
(you can get them still in Guido’s bar).
My mother’s sauce, slow-cooked with lots of gar-
lic, peppers, onions, topped with mozarella,
was nothing you can purchase in a jar
at Central Market. Homemade’s best by far,
but that’s for folks who don’t live near a deli,
don’t hang out most nights in Guido’s bar.
I haven’t time to bake lasagna or
clean up the pans or write a villanella.
I’ll just heat puttanesca from a jar,
put on some heels, and head for Guido’s bar.
© Carol A. Taylor
For permission to publish or otherwise share this poem, please contact Carol.
Villanella was first published in The Barefoot Muse in December 2007.
